Letters From a Serial Killer
by Feather-of-Maat
Summary: What do you do when you discover the man you thought was your husband is actually your husband's murderer? Sylar/Heidi, set in the Five Years Gone universe.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**_ Heroes_ and its characters belong to a bunch of people who aren't me.

**Notes:** This is set in the "Five Years Gone" universe and takes place after that episode. (I'm not sure if post-5YG fics are technically even possible, so I'll call this an AU just to be safe.) This story is meant to take place after my first Sylar/Heidi fic, _Complicated_, but it's not particularly necessary to have read that one first.

- - -

The first letter came several months after America discovered its president wasn't exactly who he claimed to be.

For former First Lady Heidi Petrelli, the memory of those months consisted mainly of a long blur, interspersed with brief instances of sharp, agonizing clarity. She remembered perfectly the moment the whole nightmare had started—beginning with the sudden appearance of her brother-in-law, Peter.

She hadn't seen Peter in years, not since his falling-out with Nathan, which had taken place a short time after Nathan was elected president. Seeing him again had come as a shock in more ways than one. She hadn't expected that he would be so changed—not only in appearance, but even more in personality—that she would barely recognize him. She hadn't expected him to look like he'd just seen the beginning of World War III—fresh bruises still healing, dried blood encrusted on his face, clothing hanging off of him in shreds. And she _certainly_ had never expected him to inform her that Nathan was dead, _had_ been dead for months if not years, and that the man she'd thought was her husband was actually a psychopathic mass murderer. A mass murderer who, in spite of Peter's best efforts, was currently at large, his whereabouts completely unknown.

And even as everyone around her was thrown into a frenzy of shock and disbelief, Heidi's primary sensation was that of strange, merciful numbness.

As a new president took over the reeling nation, she and the boys moved permanently back into the mansion in Manhattan, where the numbness gave way to grief that nearly swallowed her whole. She'd always been possessed of a fierce determination—Nathan would have called it sheer stubbornness—that had allowed her to fight through whatever circumstances life chose to throw at her, and come out on the other side with her sanity intact.

Her husband's killer had taken that stubborn determination and shattered it like porcelain hitting concrete. Everywhere she heard his name—_Sylar_—spoken in hushed tones as though saying it aloud would make him appear from thin air and obliterate them all with a wave of his hand. Some spoke of him with pure fear in their voices. Others—like Peter—hissed his name with hatred in their eyes that bordered on madness. Heidi knew only that it was a name she never wanted to hear again, yet was unable to escape. The temptation to shut down completely—to barricade herself in her bedroom and never come out—was nearly overwhelming.

But time marched relentlessly on, pushing her with it. And slowly, the remnants of her hardheadedness returned. It was all that kept her going.

It seemed odd at first, returning to a semblance of normal life after having lived in the White House. But in all honesty, she didn't mind falling back into the pattern of everyday life's ordinary tasks—watering flowers, shopping for groceries, checking the mail. The mundane chores gave her something to keep her busy, something to prevent her from thinking, _remembering. _It didn't even matter that she barely noticed the flowers' bright colors, or that all food tasted like cardboard, or that nothing noteworthy ever came in the mail.

Until one day she received a plain white envelope, addressed to her in handwriting she didn't recognize.

She separated it from the rest of the mail and looked it over, her curiosity piqued in spite of herself. Her name and address were printed in simple black ink, in handwriting that was rather straightforward, no-nonsense, and—she guessed—probably masculine. The envelope contained no return address and no other clue as to the sender's identity.

She waited until she had returned to the house, discarded the rest of the mail, and climbed the stairs to her bedroom before she unsealed the envelope and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She unfolded it carefully, revealing words written in the same neat, black print as that from the envelope.

And for no particular reason, her heart skipped uncomfortably in her chest as she began to read.

_Hello, Heidi._

_I would say I hope things are going well with you, but somehow I doubt you would appreciate the sentiment. I'm sure that by now, your brother-in-law has told you all sorts of stories about me, about the things I've done in the past. No doubt you find his testimony more trustworthy than you would mine, but still…you'd do well not to believe everything he tells you. He's got a bit of a checkered past, himself._

_But enough about Peter. I've found myself thinking about you a lot, Heidi, ever since my true identity was discovered and I was forced to re-think my plans. For that matter, I've been thinking about you a lot for the past several __years__, now. I tried not to, at first—because you're not special. You're not like me, or Nathan, or Peter. You're just one of the ordinary millions destined to be killed off in the process of natural selection. You shouldn't have been anything but a blip on my radar._

_Yet somehow, you managed to beat the odds. Before you, I had people grouped into two categories: those who were special, and those who weren't. Simple, really. There was no in between, no gray area. And of course, you were originally just a member of the latter group, those people who warranted my attention only if they got in my way or if they could be of some use to me. But somewhere along the line, things changed._

_I've always had a knack for seeing how things work—and that includes people, to some extent. People are just like complex machines, if you think about it. All the different parts fit together in a certain way, same as a watch or a car or anything else. In a watch, if one part is missing, damaged or even just a little bit loose, the entire watch is "off." Broken. Defective. And it's the same with people._

_When I killed Nathan, I broke you. I didn't notice it at first, but as time passed, it became more and more unmistakable. Even though you didn't know he was dead, you could still tell something was wrong—and the more desperate you became, the harder it was for me to ignore you. Because when something around me is broken, I can't just overlook it. I have to __fix__ it. Of course, fixing people is sometimes more difficult than fixing watches. More time-consuming, too. But I enjoyed the challenge you presented, Heidi—the dilemma of spending time around you while simultaneously keeping you from suspecting I wasn't really Nathan. (I admit there was more than one occasion when you came a little too close to the truth, and I had to have your memories…altered a little.)_

_At some point, though, I began to realize that my time with you had become more than just the challenge of fixing what I had broken. I found myself looking forward to seeing you—and I found your company to be more enjoyable than I had anticipated. You probably think I'm some kind of unfeeling monster who cares for nothing but power, but that's really not true. Not entirely. My priorities may be different from most people, but that doesn't mean I have no use for human contact. I don't actively seek it out, but if the opportunity presents itself, I usually won't push it away. And so I was cautious around you at first, but I surprised myself with how quickly I came to value you—and almost even __need__ you, in some ways._

_Eventually I even came to realize that, on some level, I was glad you didn't have a special ability. Because no matter what kind of feelings I may have for you, nothing can stand between me and my evolutionary imperative. Still…I think it's safe to say that, if I'd had to kill you, it would have been one of the hardest things I've ever done._

_I love you, Heidi._

_Sylar_

She sat motionless for several seconds, holding the letter limply and staring at it without seeing it. A hundred different emotions assailed her and she fought for control, refusing to let her distress show even though she was completely alone. She was the former First Lady of the United States, dignified, calm, and collected. She would not—_could_ not—cry, scream, or collapse into hysterics.

Almost detachedly, she noticed her hands were shaking, and she clasped them together tightly. Her fingernails bit into her skin, the pain serving to distract her slightly, but not enough. She closed her eyes, and without warning or permission her mind traveled back to the months following the accident that had left her wheelchair-bound. She recalled in sharp detail the emotions she'd battled every minute of every day—the grief, rage, fear and despair, but most of all, the overwhelming _helplessness_.

This was like being paralyzed all over again. Except this time she knew, with cold certainty that pierced like a needle, that no miracle would bring Nathan back to her. Nothing could undo the damage that Sylar had caused.

Finally, she unclasped her hands and picked up the letter from her husband's murderer. With slow, deliberate calm, she folded it neatly, sharpening the paper's creases, and placed it on top of the dresser. Still moving robotically, she climbed into bed and lay staring directly at the ceiling, refusing to let her eyes drift towards the dresser. Several long hours passed before her muscles—drawn tight as bowstrings—involuntarily relaxed, her gaze lost its focus, and she drifted into a restless, troubled sleep.

- - -

"Heidi? Heidi!"

She jolted awake with a strangled gasp, automatically shying away from the figure that loomed over her bed.

"Whoa, Heidi, take it easy," the intruder said in a familiar voice, and she slowly relaxed as she recognized her brother-in-law.

"You okay?" Peter asked, his hazel eyes displaying a hint of concern as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed. "You were having a nightmare."

She closed her eyes, but remembered only quick, shadowy flashes of faces she knew she would rather not identify. "I'm fine. I've forgotten it already," she replied, attempting a smile that was halfway successful but faded quickly. She cast a glance at the dresser, and her throat tightened. "Peter…"

His eyebrows drew together as he saw the look on her face. "What is it?"

Heidi took a deep breath and let it out slowly, steeling herself before looking Peter in the eye. "He wrote to me."

"Who?" Peter's expression morphed from concern to confusion, then ended on astonishment as realization dawned. "Sylar?"

Heidi could only nod.

"That_son_ of a—" Peter cut himself off with a visible effort, his eyes blazing and his jaw working rapidly. His breath hissed between clenched teeth as he fought to calm himself. "Can you tell me what he said?"

She hesitated a moment before gesturing to the dresser. "You can read it. It's over there."

Peter was at the dresser so quickly she briefly wondered if he'd flown there. He jerked the letter open, nearly ripping it in the process, and paced as he read. Heidi watched his eyes burn with fury as they skimmed down the page.

When he finished, he tossed the letter back onto the dresser with such force that it whipped across the smooth surface and nearly fell down the back. Heidi knew she would likely never forget the look of rage that contorted his usually handsome face.

"That sick _bastard_!" he spat, seething. "As if he's even capable of anything resembling love!"

Heidi turned away, forcing back the bile that suddenly rose in her throat. Images of Nathan—or the man she'd thought was Nathan—flashed before her eyes. Nathan dressed impeccably in a crisp suit and tie, expertly delivering an inspiring speech to the nation. Nathan smiling at her, the quiet, almost secretive smile that was for her alone. Nathan's arms encircling her, his hands running through her hair, his lips against her neck…

Her entire chest constricted painfully, and for an awful second she was certain she was going to vomit. It was a lie. It had all been a lie._How could I not have known_?

"Peter," she choked out, a ragged plea, and she winced at the raw desperation in her own voice.

He returned to her side instantly, winding his arms around her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Heidi," he said, his voice low and rough with his own grief. "I'm so sorry."

She sagged against him, gripping handfuls of his shirt, and finally allowed herself to cry.


	2. Chapter 2

After several hours and two more nightmares, Heidi had nearly abandoned all pretense of sleep. Phrases from Sylar's letter haunted her, running unchecked through her mind, accompanied by images of his face—images that were shadowed and vague, yet somehow unmistakably him.

It was ironic, she thought dully, that even though she and Sylar had lived as husband and wife for months at least—maybe even years—she had never seen his face or heard his voice. Her knowledge of his appearance was limited to the photographs that were annually plastered across newspapers and television screens on the anniversary of his devastation of New York City. She recalled dark, intense eyes, dark hair, and stubble that stood out against a pale complexion. Nothing overly remarkable, nothing that instantly labeled him as a mass murderer—yet it was enough. Her subconscious mind, she had discovered, was more than capable of filling in the blanks.

The grandfather clock in the first-floor dining room gave four long chimes, its sonorous tones echoing through the mansion and into Heidi's bedroom. She gave a sigh of resignation and climbed out of bed, massaging her aching temple with both hands.

Reaching out in the dark, her fingers twisted the switch of the small lamp on her nightstand, filling the room with a dim illumination. On top of the dresser—not far from where Peter had hurled Sylar's letter—lay a small, leather-bound journal. She crossed the room and picked it up, opening it to the first blank page.

She stood, hair obscuring her face, dark-circled eyes riveted to the unmarked sheet of paper. She had begun keeping a journal in her teenage years, filling its pages with the typical adolescent angst and secrets, hopes and longings. The habit had stayed with her (albeit more sporadically) into adulthood, and the journal had become an invaluable outlet for her frustrations during the months of her paralysis. She knew that had she tried to keep those emotions locked away, they would have driven her to the edge of insanity.

Now, she needed that release more than ever. Sylar had written to her, after all; there was no reason she couldn't write back. Even if he would never read it.

_Sylar,_

_It would have been devastating enough had you just killed my husband. The death—let alone murder—of a spouse is something no one should ever have to experience. Nathan may have had his flaws, but I loved him dearly—I still do—and trying to go on without him is harder than anything I've ever done._

_But that wasn't enough for you. Not only did you murder my husband, you deceived me, manipulated me, used me, __violated__ me in every way possible. The shock and grief of Nathan's death was horrible enough. The shame and humiliation and despair of learning that, for all that time, you were pretending to be him and I couldn't even tell the difference between him and you—that made it so much worse._

_There were times, of course, when I suspected something wasn't right. Times when Nathan—you—wouldn't seem to remember things we'd done or conversations we'd had. And there were little quirks and habits and preferences of Nathan's that seemed to mysteriously disappear or change without warning, aspects of his personality that just seemed…different. But I convinced myself it was simply the sheer pressure of having one of the most stressful jobs possible. Who wouldn't be forced to change after taking on the burdens of an entire nation? And I wanted so desperately to keep our marriage strong, to support him as best I could, that I told myself to overlook those seemingly insignificant discrepancies._

_But I should have known better. Even finding out that you apparently used some sort of mind control on me at times doesn't provide much comfort. I was his wife, closer to him than anyone. I should have known._

_And so even though I want to hate you for everything you've done to me, I find I hate myself even more._

The words seemed to bleed together on the page, and she let the book fall closed.

- - -

The second letter came two weeks after the first.

Heidi was on her way from the mailbox to the house when she saw it—the handwriting that was now burned into her brain, staring up at her from the envelope. Her step faltered, her breath snagging in her throat, and she felt a deep chill settle over her.

It was several hours before she could force herself to open the envelope. Part of her wanted to simply feed it into the paper shredder and be done with it, but Peter had told her—with that earnest, penetrating stare he seemed to have honed over the past five years—that, should Sylar send any more letters, it was critical that someone read them, in case he happened to slip and give any clues as to his plans or his location.

Apparently Peter and his associates were having difficulty in finding Sylar. There was a tracking system, Peter had told her gravely, but its location was proving to be just as mysterious as Sylar's. Heidi refused to contemplate the situation for more than a few seconds at a time—any longer and she knew the fear and anger would paralyze her. She couldn't allow that to happen.

And so she finally slid her fingernail under the envelope's top flap and tore it slowly, inch by reluctant inch.

The letter was written on the same type of paper, with the same black ink as the first one had been. However, as Heidi looked closer, she noticed one almost imperceptible difference: this time, the writing seemed less neat, almost ragged, as if Sylar had been in a state of agitation when he'd written it.

She didn't want to think about what might agitate a serial killer.

_Heidi, _

_What exactly was so wonderful about Nathan, anyway?_

_Granted, he was special, genetically speaking. His ability to fly has served me well on more than one occasion. But as far as Nathan himself—his personality, his quirks, his character…what was it about him that you loved?_

_Before I killed Nathan, I studied him for a long, long time. I'm a good actor—as you well know—and I'd played lots of roles before I took on Nathan's identity. But playing Nathan was obviously the most high-profile part, the one most closely scrutinized, the one with the greatest risk. What bigger stage could I ask for than the Oval Office? And what bigger audience than the entire world itself?_

_So I watched Nathan. With my ability to create illusions, it was laughably easy, really. I learned his personality traits, his facial expressions, his mannerisms. I observed him at multiple different times and places, like when he was meeting with his advisors, when he was discussing affairs of state, when he was delivering speeches…and when he was alone with you. The whole process took a while, but I was patient. Patience has always been a particular virtue of mine._

_The point I'm making here, Heidi, is that I saw sides of Nathan that probably even you never knew about. They say people are defined by the things they do when no one is watching—or, at least, when they __think__ no one is watching. And what I saw in Nathan was, aside from his ability, nothing special. He was a politician through and through—lying, cheating, power-grubbing, self-preserving at all costs. _

_I also saw that he didn't seem to have much time for you, did he, Heidi? Of course, you both still smiled for the reporters and kissed for the cameras, but behind closed doors, things weren't so blissful. You were growing apart—or maybe he was just growing away from you. Naturally the pressures of being president took up a lot of his time, but even when he did have a spare moment, it always seemed to be reserved for his brother. Or his mother. Didn't you ever feel like you were second best in his eyes?_

_When I took on Nathan's identity, at first I essentially picked up where he left off, as far as you were concerned. I just pushed you away a little more forcefully, a little more consistently than he already had been. But I have to give you credit, Heidi. You fought back with much more tenacity than I had expected._

_Do you remember the turning point? It was late one evening—I think it was sometime in July. I remember that it was swelteringly hot, tempers had been flaring all day, and I was just looking forward to getting a decent night's sleep. But you had other plans. You came into the bedroom, and you had this strange, determined light in your eyes that I didn't recall ever seeing before. At first you were calm and collected, but then things got out of hand and soon we were arguing rather…heatedly._

_I'll be honest with you, Heidi. That night was the first time in a long while that I was caught off guard, the first time something happened that wasn't exactly according to plan. You threw a definite wrench into things. I don't think I slept much at all that night. I just lay there next to you, watching you, wondering what exactly had just happened and what I was going to do about it._

_Killing you would have been one way to deal with the issue, and I'd be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind. But if I'd done that, I would have had to put up with official investigations and the like, not to mention the media circus that would have ensued, and those were hassles I didn't want. So I decided to take a chance and try living with you instead. _

_And even though I wasn't Nathan…you were happy with me, Heidi. I know it, and even though you're probably trying to deny it, my guess is that you know it too. Like I said last time I wrote to you, I can see how people work, what makes them think and act the way they do. So once I stopped trying to keep you at a distance and began to actually __see__ you, I found myself starting to give you what you needed, both emotionally and physically. I'm not used to the concept of giving. My purpose is to __take__—to obtain things that others aren't worthy of, and use them in ways that their original owners could never fathom. Like with Nathan. I took everything he had that was worth taking—his power, his position, his wife, his very existence. But with you, I realized I had to give before I could take what you had to offer._

_And in the process, I came to know you better than I've known virtually anyone else in my life. I know your facial expressions—the look that means you're about to get a migraine, the little frown you have when you're deep in thought, the flash in your eyes that says you're about to give someone an earful. I know that when you're depressed or anxious, you like to eat peanut butter right out of the jar. I know that riding in a car still scares you half to death, but you put on a brave face so no one will notice the spark of apprehension in your eyes right before you close the door. I know that you love rain, and thunderstorms especially, because they remind you of the day your first son was born. And I know all the little sounds you make when I touch you in just the right places._

_I know you, Heidi, just as well as Nathan did. Maybe even better._

_Gabriel _

Shame and loathing flooded her, and she fought the impulse to run through the house and burn everything he'd ever touched. (She knew she would have to be the first thing on the pyre.)

She had left the first letter on top of the dresser, but the second one she buried in the depths of Nathan's sock drawer, under mounds of clothing that she hadn't yet been able to make herself throw away. When Peter asked her if Sylar had written again, she said simply that yes, he had, and no, he hadn't revealed his whereabouts, and no, she'd rather not talk about it.

Later, when she was calmer, she pulled out her journal once more.

_Sylar,_

_You're wrong. Wrong about Nathan. I don't pretend to understand what kind of power you have that allows you to (supposedly) make such astute observations on the human condition, but I do know this: Nathan and I were married for nearly ten years. No, our marriage certainly wasn't perfect, but you don't spend ten years of your life with the same person without coming to know him well. My husband was a good man who loved me and our children, and who cared deeply about this city and this country and was devoted to doing everything in his power to make them __better_

_But as much as it pains me to admit it, you're right about one thing: Nathan and I had been going through some difficult times in recent years. I thought that, after I regained use of my legs and Nathan was elected senator, maybe we had turned a corner and things would start to get better. But then you destroyed New York, and everything happened so quickly after that. It was a difficult time for all of us, to put it lightly, and it took its toll on our marriage. There were times when I honestly wondered if we would be able to pull through. We'd already endured so much._

_And then __you__ came._

She dropped the pen, letting her eyes glaze over slightly as she stared at the half-filled page. Sylar's letter lay unfolded nearby, but she didn't have to look at it to recall the words causing the cold, leaden weight to form in the pit of her abdomen: _Do you remember the turning point?…You came into the bedroom, and you had this strange, determined light in your eyes that I didn't recall ever seeing before…_

Her lower lip caught between her teeth, and she ignored the taste of blood. She _did_ remember. She'd been close to her breaking point, trapped by anxiety and growing despair, _knowing_ that Nathan was slipping away from her—and knowing that unless she took action, she and her husband would become just another divorce statistic.

The previous several years of her life had seemed like a battle that stretched on with no armistice in sight. She'd fought to master her emotions following the accident, to stave off anger and bitterness. She'd fought to hold her family together even as she battled to tame the wheelchair. And she'd fought to be able to walk again.

She was no stranger to clawing tooth and nail, and so she'd prepared herself for one more struggle. Under no circumstances would she allow her marriage to die without doing everything in her power to hold it together.

And so she'd confronted Nathan that muggy July night…or so she had thought.

The coldness coiled tighter in her gut, and she lowered her head to the table, her forehead bumping against the hard surface.

She didn't recall exactly what words she had used to plead her case, but she remembered the impact they'd had. She and Nathan had made love for the first time in months, their movements almost frantic—feverish—releasing the tension and frustration that had built up for so long.

She remembered that afterward, as she lay in his arms and let her breathing slowly return to normal, he'd trailed his fingertips down her face and stared at her, unblinking, like he was seeing her for the first time.

A sound that might have been a laugh escaped her, bitter and choked, and she closed her eyes, letting the tears wet her lashes. She'd thought she had saved her marriage that night.

Instead, she'd made a serial killer begin to fall in love with her.


	3. Chapter 3

Heidi lived in a fog for the next several days, a dull ache alternating between tightening around her chest and throbbing in her skull. She wandered the house like a phantom, passing through rooms without pausing, looking out windows without seeing. She interacted with others only when necessary, always polite but detached and distant, forcing smiles that fell far short of her eyes.

The letter remained safely hidden away, out of sight, yet it was always with her.

_You were happy with me, Heidi. I know it, and even though you're probably trying to deny it, my guess is that you know it too_.

She sat at the kitchen table, staring into a mug of coffee that had long since chilled, and let the words run through her head for the hundredth time. She'd analyzed them endlessly, each time attempting to convince herself that they weren't true. But in the depths of her mind, she knew he was right.

She had moved on from denial, but acceptance still eluded her.

Her fingertip absently traced a pattern on the table's smooth surface as she let her mind drift back over the fragments of her marriage. The change in Nathan's behavior towards her (_Sylar's__ behavior_, she reminded herself implacably) had been gradual, not immediate. Yet even then, she'd felt the weight of her anxiety beginning to lighten. After months of stoic, tight-lipped detachment, her husband's interest in her had finally seemed rekindled. They had begun rebuilding their relationship quietly, the process slow and unhurried—undoubtedly a deliberate move on Sylar's part, she realized in hindsight. But even though their progress had seemed torturously slow at times, her sense of rejuvenation and relief had been immense.

Memories flashed through her head, one after another, like a highlight reel. Everyday conversations, kisses, phone calls. His eyes following her around the room as she dressed in the mornings, his hand smoothing her hair back from her face. It had all felt so normal.

And even on the occasions—at least, the ones she could remember—when things had seemed _off_…she hadn't let herself question it, hadn't wanted to do anything that might jeopardize her newfound hope.

A shadow fell across the table, and she tilted her head up, grateful for the distraction. Peter stood there, dressed all in black, as was his habit of late. His face was set in its usual grim expression, but his eyes warmed slightly and one corner of his mouth tilted up as she met his gaze.

"Hey," he said.

She couldn't help but return the expression, the first genuine smile she'd had in days. "Hello, Peter."

"I guess it would be kind of pointless to ask how you're doing, huh?" Peter said.

Heidi's smile turned wry, and she directed her gaze back to the coffee cup. "Do I look that bad?"

She heard a rustle of fabric and the scrape of chair legs against the floor as Peter sat across from her. He exhaled deeply. "You look...pretty frail."

"It's been a long couple of days, Peter," she said quietly.

"I know."

She gave a mirthless laugh. "For that matter, it's been a long couple of_months_." She closed her eyes, pressing her fingertips against her eyelids until colored spots floated across her vision.

"I'm getting worried about you, Heidi," Peter said, and something in his voice made her open her eyes and look at him across the table. "You look like you're going to break down any second. You haven't been eating for the past few days, and I'm guessing you haven't slept much either." He paused, and his tone softened. "Look, I'm not going to ask you what was in that letter. I know it's none of my business. But maybe…if he sends you any more, maybe you shouldn't read them."

Heidi narrowed her eyes in confusion. "I thought you said his letters might contain clues for finding him, figuring out his next move."

Peter sat back in his chair. "Maybe. To be honest, I doubt he's going to give us anything—he's too smart to slip up like that. Besides, he's probably on the move, trying to stay one step ahead of us." His jaw was squared, his lips thinned in resignation, and suddenly he reminded Heidi so strongly of Nathan that the thick wall holding back her emotions threatened to collapse completely.

"But still," Peter was saying, "if he sends you any more, you can just give them to me, and I'll take care of them. There's no reason for you to have to get upset like this."

Heidi opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it, not trusting her voice. She drew several shaky breaths and clenched both hands around the hapless coffee mug.

_Just say yes_, her brain urged her. _You won't have to think about Sylar any more. You can begin to get on with your life._

The thought was barely completed before her mind supplied her with an image of the letter, the precise black handwriting swimming before her eyes. The words jumbled together, phrases clashing in her brain._Didn't you ever feel like you were second best in his eyes?... I just lay there next to you, watching you… you were happy with me, Heidi… I know all the little sounds you make when I touch you in just the right places…_

"I can't," she heard herself say, and for a moment she was surprised by how firm her voice sounded.

Peter didn't blink. "Are you sure?"

She nodded once. "They're not for anyone else to read. Some of the things he…" Her throat closed, cutting off her voice, and she willed her muscles to relax. "I can't."

"Okay," Peter said. Reaching across the table, he pried her fingers off the coffee cup, squeezing them in his own. "We're going to find him, Heidi. You remember the tracking system I told you about? We're close to locating it, really close. And once we do, there won't be anywhere he can hide. We're going to find him, and he'll pay for everything he's done." His grip tightened like a vise as his eyes hardened. "_Everything_."

She squeezed his hand back, and for the first time in months, she allowed herself a fragile hope.

- - -

The third letter came less than two weeks after the second.

Heidi had been preparing herself daily for the possibility, unconsciously holding her breath every time she checked the mail. Yet her entire system still received an unpleasant jolt when her almost-trembling fingers sifted through the envelopes and revealed the familiar black print.

She hastened back inside the house, trying not to succumb to mingled anger and despair. _When will this stop? Will he ever leave me alone?_

This time she didn't hesitate to unseal the envelope, ripping it open with one quick motion. When the letter was in her hands she paused, collecting herself, then sat at the kitchen table and slowly unfolded the sheet of paper.

_Hello, Heidi._

_Yesterday I had a particularly interesting day._

_The last time I collected a special ability was…I guess it's been several months, now. That was when I took the healing power that had eluded me for such an aggravatingly long time. The original carrier of that power was Claire Bennet—she would have been your stepdaughter, wouldn't she? Somebody was clever and sneaky enough to hide her from me all these years, not that it mattered in the end. I won eventually. I always do._

_But I'm getting sidetracked. Before I killed Claire that day, I told her that I didn't need any more power, I just needed to eliminate anyone who might pose a threat to me. But that first part wasn't strictly set in stone. It's true that I've stopped collecting powers just for the sake of having them, but if I discover an ability that's __particularly__ intriguing, I'm not so foolish as to turn it away. Waste not, want not, after all._

_That's what happened yesterday. I came across a girl named Molly Walker, about fifteen years old. A very special girl. Pretty, too—big blue eyes that reminded me of yours, for no particular reason._

_You should have seen the look in those eyes when she realized exactly who I was. We had a little bit of history, you see, some unfinished business that needed attention. I always hate to leave loose ends dangling._

_I wiped some of the blood off her face, afterward. I've never done that before. But somehow it seemed like a shame to leave her looking so…imperfect._

_Anyway, I have her power now, and it's an especially useful one—the ability to instantly know the location of any person in the world, just by thinking about him or her. It's a pretty addicting sensation—it makes you feel omnipresent, almost omniscient. Kind of like God. Or maybe Santa Claus._

_And of all the people on this planet, Heidi, you're the one I think about the most. Now I always know where you are, all the time, no matter where you go. Gaining little Molly's power, however, has made me realize just how long it's been since I've seen you. Too long, Heidi. Far too long._

_I've always been capable of living and working on my own. I've never been dependent on another person, and I don't plan to start now. But when I was president, I became accustomed to seeing your face, hearing your voice. And I won't lie; your presence helped me get through some long and frustrating times._

_I think I'll come and visit you soon, Heidi. My illusion-casting power allows me to make things disappear, even myself. I can slip into your room and watch you without any trouble. You won't even know I'm there, unless I want you to. Who knows, I might be standing beside you right now, as you're reading this letter._

_I miss you, Heidi. I'll see you before long._

_Sylar_

The ability to breathe seemed to evade her for several prolonged moments, until her vision blurred and her brain emphatically reminded her of its need for oxygen. She wanted to let go of the letter but found that her fingers, clumsy blocks of ice, wouldn't obey her commands. Fragmented thoughts raced through her mind, frantic and chaotic, shoving against each other like a panicked crowd trying to flee a burning building.

_He's insane—he's coming here—watching me—killer—murderer—oh, God, what do I __do_

Instinctively, she remained still, frozen in place like a deer sensing the eyes of a predator. In one of the far corners of her mind, she felt like she was a defenseless child again, huddled under the covers and whimpering in fear of the scary monsters that lurked in the shadowy corners of her bedroom.

Only now, the monster was real, and he didn't need the cover of shadows or darkness.

Suddenly, she felt a feather-light touch on her hair.

Her heart crashed against her ribcage, its rhythm irregular and dangerously fast. _It's just your imagination,_ she tried to convince herself. Sheer paranoia wreaking its havoc, nothing more.

But then it came again—the barely noticeable pressure of invisible fingers gliding on her back.

She twisted in her chair so quickly she thought her spinal column would snap (_again_). Her eyes scanned the room wildly, darting to all the nooks and corners. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. She held her breath.

"Are you there?" she asked the empty room, her tone hushed, her voice free of tremors only through sheer force of willpower.

There was no response.

She gripped the sides of the chair as she continued to glance around the room, watching, straining to see any signs of life. None came.

A treacherous voice inside her head whispered wordlessly that perhaps she should consider the possibility that she was losing her mind.

And she couldn't help but wonder if, just maybe, that was what he'd wanted all along.


End file.
